


Lights Over Chicago

by coricomile



Series: here i blur into you [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Edgeplay, Fire, Fire play, M/M, Pinching, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick cranks the lighter, a shiny silver Zippo Pete had bought for him, and carefully lights Pete on fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Over Chicago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkangel0410](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel0410/gifts).



> ...not actually written for Pete's birthday, but we can pretend it was. Also, the urge to make a Light Em Up reference somewhere was almost impossible to resist. Almost.

"Stop moving," Patrick says as he digs through the black bag beside him. He's sitting with folded legs on the floor in his pajamas, his hair fluffy and his mouth pursed in annoyance. He is the most beautiful thing Pete has ever seen.

"I am no longer a spring chick, Rick," Pete says, grinning up at the ceiling. It's not a lie- he can feel the aches already starting up in his back from laying on the hardwood- but he mostly says it for the way Patrick rolls his eyes. "And the mat itches." It is also sticking to his bare ass and thighs.

"You dragged me out of bed at six in the morning," Patrick says, finally pulling the bottle of alcohol he keeps in his bag out. It's almost empty. "I don't give a shit how itchy it is. Hold still or I'll go back to sleep."

"I don't believe you," Pete says, because he doesn't. He stopped buying that threat _years_ ago. "Anyway, it's a _holiday_. You can't sleep in on a holiday."

"Your birthday isn't a holiday." Patrick yawns and pulls out a grey towel. It's not the softest one they have, but it is the heaviest. "Did you shave your chest?"

Pete pats his smooth pecs and nods. The movement of his head makes the yoga mat squeak. This one is a dazzling lime green. It has a single dark hole burnt into a spot near the bottom and smells like liquor.

"Seriously, dude, if you don't stay still, I'm not going to do this again," Patrick says, just like he does every time. It's Pete's cue to clap twice. The lights around the den go off. The room is dark except for the spill of sunlght that creeps around the curtains. "Ready?"

Patrick doesn't wait for him to answer. He dabs at the lip of the alcohol bottle with a cotton ball and runs a straight line from one side of Pete's stomach to the other, right under his ribs. Pete holds his breath. The fun, easy feelings of being with Patrick the Boyfriend fade away, and the nervous, giddy feelings of being with Patrick In Charge take over. 

Patrick cranks the lighter, a shiny silver Zippo Pete had bought for him, and carefully lights Pete on fire.

It's a bright flash of blue and orange, and then Patrick's hand is on him, wiping over the spot to kill any flames that might try to swing back around. Pete's skin tingles. Patrick wets the cotton ball again, swipes it over Pete's side, down the curve of his hip, and does it again.

The rush of heat that slides over Pete's skin doesn't last a second, but he feels it all the way into his muscles. He laughs a little when Patrick draws a circle around his navel, looking up just in time to see the tiny smile at the edge of Patrick's mouth. The flame moves starts between his collarbones and ends when it's finished its circuit around his belly button.

Patrick plays for a while, doodling lines and signs and his initials over Pete's chest and stomach and watching them burn. Pete's skin feels like it's electric, just one big conductor of energy, siphoning it away from the fire. It doesn't exactly hurt or feel good, but it makes him aware of everything. 

Patrick lights a line below his nipples, and the heat makes them go tight. Pete's dick makes a point to announce its interest. Patrick rubs him idly with one hand, light like he's petting a cat, and swabs him with the other.

"Your options are," Patrick says as he leans in to kiss Pete's jaw. He burns a path over Pete's stomach that lasts a little too long. Pain spikes in Pete's gut. He moans. "I can stop now and we can go back to bed, where you will give me fantastic head and I won't even cane you for being obnoxious." 

"You won't cane me because you're lazy before noon," Pete says. Patrick squeezes his dick, his first and middle fingers pressed right between Pete's balls. Pete thrashes. Patrick squeezes tighter.

"No more options," Patrick says. The fuzzy, sleepy halo he's been wearing all morning is gone. He scowls and sets his fire toys to the side. "Flip over." When Pete doesn't move right away, Patrick digs his nails into his hip.

Pete lays flat on the yoga mat and pits his face between his arms. He's not supposed to watch when he's in trouble, which sucks on an epic scale. Patrick is gorgeous when he's being pissy.

Pete waits, his sensitive skin buzzing everywhere the mat touches it. He wants to move, but he can feel Patrick's eyes on him. He knows better.

The first pinch gets him right above his left hip. It is not a childish pinch. Patrick's fingers lock in around the spare skin and twist, holding it there until Pete jerks. Patrick's other hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades, holding him down. When Patrick finally lets go, the skin stings.

The second pinch is on his thigh, right on the inside, right below his balls. He shouts, the sound slapping against the walls and coming back around. It _hurts_ , but god he loves it.

Patrick pinches and scratches and bites- big, painful bites on Pete's side and ass and shoulder- until Pete feels like he's nothing but a giant screaming bruise. Tomorrow is going to be hell.

"Jesus Christ," Pete pants when Patrick taps his balls, just enough to make him curl in on himself. His dick is going to explode. "Fuck. I- please?" He's not really sure what he's asking for.

"Why should I?" Patrick asks. His pajama pants brush over Pete's legs, soft as butter and warm. Pete wants to feel them all over, wants Patrick to just completely swallow him up.

"Because it's my birthday," Pete says, because it is.

"Gags," Patrick says, sticking two fingers into Pete's mouth. They pull like a hook, dragging Pete's head to the side. "I need to buy gags." Pete moans.

Patrick sits back, dragging Pete by the mouth with him. Drool runs down Pete's chin, thick and slick. Absolutely everything hurts. Patrick pulls until Pete's face is against his crotch, the hard line of his cock digging into Pete's jaw.

"Look at me," Patrick says. He doesn't let go of Pete's mouth, but he's stopped pulling. Pete rolls his eyes up, smart enough not to move his head. "I'm going to let you go, and you are going to get on your knees. If you move from right here," he rolls his hips up, his dick moving across Pete's cheek, "you don't get off."

Pete mouths at the soft flannel closest to him in acceptance. There is a tiny damp patch on the pants that grows as Pete sucks at him.

"Stop that," Patrick says with the sort of self denial that Pete could never muster. He supposes that's why Patrick is in charge. "You are going to jerk yourself off, and I'm going to time you. You have two minutes, Pete. If you don't get off in two minutes, you don't get off at all. Do you understand me?" Pete nods. He's not going to need two minutes.

When Patrick slips his fingers free, Pete awkwardly climbs to his knees. He's balancing most of his weight on Patrick's thigh, which can't be comfortable, but Patrick doesn't budge. He strokes his cool, wet fingers over the back of Pete's neck and waits patiently for Pete to get a hand around himself.

"Go," he says, and Pete jerks off like he's in high school again, frantic and a little pathetic.

It feels so good. He's so hard, and every time he moves he feels how turned on Patrick is, and it's like a perpetual motion cycle. He wants to see Patrick's face, but he can't keep his eyes open. He's going to blow his load _now_.

He nearly falls over when Patrick pinches him, right on top of a tender ring of fading teeth marks. He catches himself with the hand he's been jerking off with. Oh, he thinks dumbly. That's the game.

"You've only got ninety seconds to go, Pete," Patrick says sweetly. He is evil and anyone who says otherwise is a fool. "You might want to get to it."

Pete braces himself and picks up again. He knows what to expect, but each time he's almost there- his balls drawing up tight, his breath coming in short- Patrick pinches him. He wants to sob. He might be already. He can't tell.

"I know you can do it," Patrick says, even as he sinks his nails into Pete's shoulder. "Come on, Pete. Fifty seconds."

Pete fucks into his dry hand and moans, low and long and desperate. If he doesn't come, he's going to implode. Patrick strokes his head gently and then yanks his hair. Pete has to pull against it to keep his face where it belongs. 

"Twenty seconds," Patrick reports. Pete whines. His face is wet. He's crying. He's not going to make it. "If you come for me, I'll let you suck me off."

Pete thinks about Patrick's cock in his mouth, already so close but not quite there, thinks about the way he smells and tastes, and does fall over when he finally, _finally_ comes.

Patrick laughs at him and pets his head as he catches his breath. Pete can't move. He is broken, and Patrick is the one that broke him. Weakly, he drags an arm up to paw at the waist of Patrick's pants.

"Don't worry about it," Patrick says softly. He rubs Pete's temple with his thumb, small circles that feel like heaven. Pete takes it back. Patrick is an angel sent straight down just for him. "I'll deal with it after I've got you cleaned up."

"No," Pete mumbles. He wants to do something, even if it's not going to be anything particularly spectacular. "You said I could suck you off."

"I don't think you have the motor skills for that right now," Patrick says. He's smiling. Pete paws at his pants again. After a moment, Patrick says, "I have a compromise."

Pete flops around as Patrick wiggles his pants down low enough to free his dick. He isn't moving until he can feel his toes again. Also, he currently has the best view in the world.

Patrick's dick is fat and curls a little toward his stomach. The hair around it is lighter than the hair on his head. Pete loves Patrick's dick, and he would like to kiss it now.

"Stay there," Patrick says, pushing Pete's head down further on his thigh. 

Pete is miffed when Patrick spits in his hand and begins to jerk himself off, slow like he's got all day. Not that he doesn't love the show. He has dreams about this.

"Put that mouth of yours to work," Patrick says. His voice is breathy. When Pete tries to lift up to lick his knuckles, Patrick shakes his head. "Stay where you are." Oh, Pete thinks. Oh.

He licks the damp crease of Patrick's thigh, tastes his sweat. He kisses the back of Patrick's hand as it slides down past his face. He stretches his tongue out and taps it against Patrick's balls. Patrick hums, a tiny little note of pleasure that makes Pete shiver every time.

Even though he's not supposed to move, Pete wiggles closer and presses his face between Patrick's thighs. The smell is clean and musky and _Patrick_. He loves this, too. Carefully, he sucks at Patrick's balls, licks them until they're wet against his mouth. Patrick's hand keeps bumping against his head, but he isn't going to move.

He hums, presses his mouth the place Patrick's sac meets his dick. Patrick's thighs tense under Pete's body. He's so quiet when he's about to come, teeth dug into his lip and eyes closed. Pete keeps licking.

Patrick grabs Pete's hair with his free hand and pulls him away as he comes all over his tshirt and fingers. Christ, he's gorgeous. 

"Fuck," Patrick pants. He guides Pete up gently, kisses him on the forehead, the cheek, the corners of his wet mouth. "You're going to kill me. Are you okay?"

Pete nods. He's wrung out and tired. With the thrill of orgasm fading away, he's also starting to notice just how much he already aches.

"Lay down," Patrick says, even as he guides Pete back to the yoga mat. Pete sighs at the loss of full body contact but goes anyway.

He listens to Patrick dig around in his black bag, head on his arms. Logically, he knows his back will never forgive him if he falls asleep on the floor. He's not really sure that he cares.

Patrick sings softly as he uncaps the ointment and spreads it gently across Pete's back. He's careful as he rubs it in, but Pete still flinches when he goes over some of the more tender spots. He can't wait to look in the mirror.

Patrick kisses down his spine, a tiny apology that Pete really, really doesn't need, and grabs the towel. It's meant to put any accidental fires out, but he uses it to clean them both up. Pete's bones have been replaced with jelly.

"Bed," Patrick says softly. He holds a hand out. It's shiny with ointment, even though he tried wiping it all off with the towel. Their sheets are going to hand grease stains and smell like rubbing alcohol. "Sleep."

"I'm not tired," Pete says around a yawn. Correction: he's exhausted, but he doesn't want to move. 

"I will leave you here," Patrick says, like he does every time. Pete flops a hand at him. He doesn't have to look to know Patrick's rolling his eyes.

"It's my birthday," he says, in case Patrick forgot. "You can't abandon me on my birthday."

"I won't bring up my twenty-first birthday because I'm actually going to pass out, but I'm hoping you're making a note that it was mentioned."

"Note made," Pete says sheepishly.

He lets Patrick help him to his feet and, together, they wobble their way to bed. Pete waits until Patrick's down and flops on top of him. Patrick's pajama pants are so, so soft against him. He falls asleep before he can say thank you.


End file.
